


In the Still of the Night

by FuturePSotUS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Plothole Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuturePSotUS/pseuds/FuturePSotUS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock must flee Montague Street in the middle of the night after a failed experiment. He calls Anthea. Too bad it’s 3am.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Still of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my best friend, and favorite Anthea, Kels (askanthea.tumblr.com) for writing this with me. We had a lot of fun and it's one of my favorite pieces!

Anthea’s phone never turned off. She never let the battery run down. She never placed it on silent. At night it sat beside her pillow, plugged in, just waiting for her to wake and put it to use again. Luckily for the PA, two am phone calls didn’t happen as often as they could have. At the moment the government was stable, Britons were only moderately dissatisfied with the economy (thank you Greece), terrorist threats were as low as they ever got, and she and Mycroft had comfortably established trust in their working relationship. She only woke up and ran for the door once a week in calm times like these. But her long hours and full weeks took their toll. So on the rare occasions she had a full twenty-four hours to herself, Anthea took them and didn’t ask for permission twice.

oday was one of the rare occasions and the young woman had a full schedule of nothing to accomplish. So when her phone pinged and woke her at four she silently and with only a mediocum of resentment said goodbye to her lazy Saturday. However, upon opening the message and seeing it didn’t come from her boss but rather his incredibly demanding younger brother she groaned and didn’t bother to return the text.

**[SMS to A] I’ll be there in thirty. Don’t wear anything you want to keep. SH**

A minute passed, she’d only just managed to fall asleep again, and her phone went off again. Twenty-four hours of peace that’s all she wanted. Twenty-four hours without meetings or make-up, paperwork or people, schedules or security. Twenty- fours to sleep, paint her nails, and watch trashy bridal tv.

_Ping._

Her phone went off again. The worst of it was that she had to look to ensure it wasn’t a national emergency. And Sherlock knew that. And took advantage of it.

**[SMS to A] Please confirm receipt. I will see you in twenty-eight minutes. Do you have rubber gloves? SH**

Rubber gloves? The randomness of it nearly convinced her to respond but she resisted. Another few minutes passed as she dozed.

_Ping. Ping._

**SMS to A] And a gas mask? SH**

**[SMS to A] Nevermind. I’ll pick both up on the way. New ETA thirty-nine minutes. SH**

Where could he find a gas mask and rubber gloves at four in the morning, she wondered blearily as she tried to remember if she dead-bolted the door. It never even occurred to Anthea that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to find what he wanted she only wondered what poor sod would wake to a six foot madman pounding down his front door. With that image in her head her head fell back onto the pillow and returned to her dreams.

She shouldn’t be surprised. She really, really should not be surprised to wake up to a blaze of light and the very same, very tall madman leaning over her bed, shaking her shoulder. “Come along, get up, it’s been forty-five minutes,” he groused uncomprehending of how Anthea could still be in bed six minutes after he told her he’d arrive.

“Come along, come along,” he repeated as he shook her shoulder.

The woman shrugged off his hand and grab the nearest pillow to block out the light. “Go away.”

Sherlock’s response was immediate, “No. Get. Up.”

“Unless the government has come crashing down or something’s’ happened to your brother, which I doubt, no.”

“Something will happen to Mycroft if you don’t get up and help me get my stuff out of Montague Street. Preferably before my landlord arrives to investigate,” he insisted. “Oh,” nearly as an afterthought he thrust a tall and steaming hot coffee in her hand, “I assume you’re useless without caffeine. Now,” he pulled the sheets off of the bed and flung them to the ground around the foot, “get up while I find you something to wear.” Sherlock stalked to her closet and opened drawers purposely pawing to their backs to find Anthea’s least desirable clothing.

At least the coffee was warm and from her favorite cafe, thought Anthea as she sat up, pinching herself once to make sure that, no, she wasn’t actually dreaming. “What would he find, should he investigate your flat? Something that requires gloves and a mask obviously.”

“I miscalculated a formula last night,” Sherlock admitted guiltily. Although to a new acquaintance his guilt may have seemed to come from a place of embarrassment at presumably creating a dangerous situation, anyone that knew him, like Anthea, would know that the tall man was actually upset at having to admit he’d made a mistake. “The flat has no structural damage,” he continued, “but it is...” another guilty pause, “...unlivable at the moment.” Then continuing as if he hadn’t just admitted to anything Sherlock threw a plain, loose fitting, long sleeved black shirt and yoga pants at his companion, “These should do.”

Anthea contemplated physically removing the man from her flat, but his face during the explanation was enough to convince her to help him. “Fine. I’ll be out in a moment. There is some packing tape in the hallway closet.”

Sherlock stood smugly and left the room as silently as he’d entered, rummaging around the closet for tape before moving to the kitchen to appropriate a pair of scissors. “We’re going to have to be quick and efficient,” he called to the PA, “I trust you have a vehicle we can use?”

“I can arrange one,” Anthea spoke, finishing a braid as she walked through the flat. “It can be at Montague in two hours. Will that do?”

“One would do better,” came the retort. “Are you done?” he finally looked up at the woman and paused in his movement for a moment to marvel at how quickly Anthea had readied herself as well at the complicated braid that wrapped around her head. Perhaps her early morning calls from Mycroft were good for something after all.

“Yes. Two will have to do. I hope you told the cab to wait, I doubt we’ll find another one easily and the tube isn’t open yet.” She finished the last dregs of coffee binning it and grabbing her keys and cellphone off the counter. The PA held the door open, gesturing him to go first.

Without a nod of thanks or any sort of acknowledgement, the consulting detective swept from the flat also not bothering to respond to the taxi comment. He entered the waiting vehicle and as soon as Anthea had a foot in he gave the driver the Montague Street address while promising, “An extra tenner if you can get there in less than twenty.”

“This really must be bad if you want to do it under the cover of darkness.” While Anthea spoke she ordered a truck to meet them at Sherlock’s flat, along with a few extra movers who may or may not have Special Forces training.

“There was a small miscalculation,” he reiterated, “in the ratio of phosgene to chlorine as I recreated the gases most common to the Great War. It won’t happen again. Unfortunately, it’s led to a rather noxious and toxic spread of the gas in my flat. I’ve contained it but the neighbors may still suffer from some of the lesser effects. I believe moving out before they call the landlord and I am kicked out may save us some trouble. Especially as I’ve already engaged another place.”

The women pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, “You are aware you broke about four treaties aren’t you?” Three years of working for Mycroft and Sherlock could still surprise her, most of the time it was not in a good way. While she spoke she also arranged for cleaners to come before the landlord arrived. “We won’t need fully body suits or respirators will we?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock dismissed Anthea’s concerned with a supremely condescending eye roll, “If the gas were that toxic I wouldn’t be unaffected. Which I am not. Obviously.” He continued to prattle on for the remainder of the ride explaining to the young woman the balancing act between the two chemicals, how both sides used gas during the war, the effects of the gassing, and the best techniques by which to gas a large group of people. His knowledge was as obscure as it was terrifying.

While Sherlock prattled on about chemical weapons, the PA took the opportunity to close her eyes, leaning her head against the cool window. There was chance of falling asleep again, but an extra ten minutes in quiet relaxation would help her face whatever chaos Sherlock’s flat held.

The cab came to a halt outside a unobtrusive block of London flats. The stop was enough to rouse Anthea and she rolled her neck before stepping out to a cold February morning, leaving Sherlock to pay the driver.

Huffing a bit as he pulled the necessary bills out of his wallet, Sherlock followed Anthea out of the car and to the building’s door. Pulling out his keys out and letting them in, out of nowhere he passed her a damp flannel, “Just in case.”

Anthea shot the detective a glare, but took the cloth, which she recognized from her linen closet, nonetheless and followed him into the flat.

The door swung open to reveal a shabby apartment. Threadbare rugs lay across scratched wooden floors and equally threadbare and scratched furniture sat on top of everything. Even worse papers, notebooks, lab equipment, and knick-knacks covered nearly every surface in the cramped space. Moving into the bedroom didn’t change the view at all. Here the mess presented in a more organized fashion, most of the papers had already found their way into boxes, but the room still fairly bulged with belongings. And as a reminder of why Anthea stood in such a shabby flat at not yet four-thirty on a Saturday morning, everything around her had a sort of yellow haze around it.

“I started on the bedroom as soon as I cleared away the worst of the gas,” Sherlock explained, “but I didn’t get far before I realized I’d need help. That’s where you come in.”

“Obviously,” her voice was muffled by the damp rag, “you should keep that coat on.” The PA moved efficiently through the flat, opening all the widows while Sherlock continued to fill boxes in his bedroom.

“I don’t suppose you have a fan do you?”

Sherlock scoffed a bit, “No.”

He started giving orders, “Make sure to keep stacks of paper together in roughly the same order you find them, be careful with any specimens-” he broke off and looked at Anthea, “Why don’t you just stick with papers. I’ll start in on specimens and lab equipment.”

The PA fought the urge to strangle him, instead taking all the prints off the walls and wrapping them in towels or sheets. Of course he had enough chemicals to try and produce mustard gas, but no bubble wrap.

As she was standing near a window Anthea was able to hear the truck pull up and four large, military trained “movers,” at least for the next few hours, filled out.

“I’ll be right back,” called Anthea.

She took the stairs two steps at a time and ushered the men in, instructing them first to put the masks on. “You will ask Sherlock if something is safe to move before lifting it or taking it down stairs. We have to move quickly, I want this all packed up in by nine. We have four hours.”

Sherlock barely noticed Anthea leave the flat as he carefully sorted and boxed all of his slides. He’d recently begun a collection of dog hair samples that he’d yet to finish labeling. However, at the sound of more than just Anthea’s size six-and-a-half feet climbing the stairs outside his door. He froze for a moment trying to discern if Mycroft’s were among the additions to their moving party but relaxed as soon as he realized they were not.

“Military help? Really, Anthea? It’s only one flat, I do think we could have managed,” he remarked as he placed the packed slides into a box and moved to find something with which to wrap his microscope.

“I think the words you’re searching for are ‘thank you.’”

“Are they though?”

“If you still want help they are.”

“Very well,” Sherlock straightened, “Start with the bedroom, most of it is boxed already and the rest can go in whatever containers it will fit.”

“What furniture are we taking? That should go in the truck first.”

“Mrs. Hudson said that Baker Street was lightly furnished, whatever previous tenants had left I believe,” Sherlock replied. Looking at Anthea he clearly had not even thought of bringing furniture with him.

“What do you need to take?”

He hesitated, “What do you think I need? A bed I suppose?”

“A bed, chairs, desk, telly, dresser. Things people have in a furnished flat.” “

What would I need a television for?” Sherlock snorted a bit, “the bed yes,” he turned again to the men still waiting for their orders, “Take everything in the bedroom, furniture, papers, everything hung on the wall, everything.”

“If that fills the truck you’re to take it to 221 Baker Street, the front door will be unlocked. I am moving into flat B, straight up the stairs the bedroom is on the second level.”

“It won’t fill the truck up. More than one trip would be conspicuous, and I doubt Mrs Hudson leaves her door unlocked overnight.”

Anthea moved to the bedroom door, movers in toe. “I’ll bag the clothing up. Sherlock, trash bags?”

“Obviously I unlocked the door,” he retorted edgily. “And fine then just start with the bedroom and then come back for more direction when you’re done.”

Before Sherlock could turn back to his microscope and pipettes he processed Anthea’s question. “Trash bags?” he asked incredulously, “Why would you ever need them?”

“I doubt you’ve kept enough garment bags for your extensive wardrobe, boxes for all your shoes, or enough suitcases space for them?”

The tall man paused with a crease between his eyes, “No I don’t,” he clearly hadn’t thought through the packing process at all before calling Anthea, “Do try and use the cases and garment bags I do own on my nicer suits first if you could. Trash bags are,” he reached under the sink, “here.”

“Of course,” replied Anthea with an eye roll. She took the entire box and found the garment bags and suitcases in the back of Sherlock’s closet and began with the more expensive suits. Each was carefully placed in a garment bag and stacked ready to be taken down last.

The movers worked quickly and efficiently, breaking the bed down and clearing the room as Anthea finished tossing a pair of trainers and a tracksuit in a trash bag. The bedroom was cleared out, including Sherlock’s dirty laundry separated by dry clean only and normal clothing.

When she came to the living room she found a mounted bison skull sitting on the ground that she’d not seen before. “Is this coming too?”

“Of course,” he remarked easily, “I need it. Also this one,” he tossed a human skull at her. “Have you met Billy?”

She caught the skull, only bobbling it once, before placing it in a box, “Charmed.”

Looking at the herculean effort that was packing up the kitchen, the PA decided to save it for last, focusing on the bathroom instead. There she was able to fill one box with all his grooming products, including, much to her delight a hairdryer and a makeup kit. She snapped a photo of the last two things, Mycroft would be amused by it at least.

Sherlock continued on in the kitchen and living room, methodically categorizing and wrapping all of his science equipment while making sure to clearly label each box he filled with a combination of the words, “CAREFUL,” “GLASS,” BREAKABLE,” and “DO NOT DROP.” Other than a few belongings such as Billy and his violin, his microscope and the instruments he used to run his experiments remained his most valued possessions.

By seven the flat was essentially packed and Anthea was directing the movers on how to get everything out of the flat in a timely manner and without waking any of the neighbors up. Sherlock let her control the process shockingly, only giving direction when he thought the movers were being careless with his belongings.

At eight the PA was carrying the last box out, passing two cleaners in hazmat suits going in to disinfect the flat. Sherlock followed behind her carrying his great Belstaff and violin case.

“Well that was simple,” he remarked conversationally as if he hadn’t woken Anthea up in a panic at four in the morning.

”Yes, things are so simple when you have MI6 trained movers on hand,” Anthea shot back.

“They really are,” Sherlock agreed willfully misunderstanding her meaning. “We’re nearly done now,” he continued as they got in a cab, who was instructed to follow the truck and began their journey across town behind the moving van.

With the morning traffic and following the truck the drive only took twenty minutes. In the cab Anthea sent a text, instructing the movers to go find a place to eat and wait for rush hour to end. She could do many things but blocking a busy road during the morning commute wasn’t one of them. The truck turned right while the cab continued to 221B Baker Street.

Seeing the small cafe next door Anthea smiled, she could get something to eat and a cup of coffee while they waited.

Watching the PA’s eyes rest on the cafe Sherlock knew what she’d suggest next. “Wouldn’t you rather move it all in now and get it over with,” he cajoled.

“I’m not going to disrupt an entire morning commute just for you.” Anthea stepped out of the cab and cleared the sidewalk in two efficient steps. Once inside she found a cozy corner table where she and Sherlock could wait out an hour.

Mister Chatterjeee took her order eggs and coffee before looking expectantly at Sherlock. Sherlock in return stared back at the proprietor and opening his mouth to deduce when Anthea foot connected with his shin. “Coffee, black, two sugars.” He turned back to his companion and stared at her until the man left to place their order.

“He’s flirting with Mrs. Hudson, my new landlady. She hasn’t returned the sentiments yet but he’ll continue until she does. He must be very charming to have wives in both Doncaster as well as Islamabad.”

“Fascinating.” Three years of knowing Sherlock had worn off the novelty of his party trick, “I’m sure Mrs Hudson is also pleased you’re not going to move in until at least nine thirty. She’s probably still in bed. How did you even find his flat so quickly?”

“I know the landltady, Mrs. Hudson. She owes me a favor, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida two years ago…” Sherlock trailed off as their order arrived.

She took a sip of the coffee and was pleasantly surprised by it, “And?”

“Did you know the state of Florida prefers to execute its inmates by electric chair rather than lethal injection?” he responded by way of an answer.

“What a charming state. Still, even the wives of people put to death in Florida like to have a bit of a lie in.” Anthea wondered how much Mycroft knew about the new flat, especially the price. “I hope this flat is nicer than the one currently being cleaned for chemical weapons.”

“Of course it is. You can nearly see the park from here,” he remarked snidely. Then with more seriousness he added, “There’s no need to tell my brother I’ve run off to another wreck. The flat may be older but it’s well maintained, Mrs. Hudson keeps a clean house. Satisfied now?”

“Yes. It must be expensive. As you said, this is a nice neighborhood.”

“It is, Mrs. Hudson is giving me a bit of a deal though as she owes me.”

“How many rooms?”

“Presuming you mean bedrooms and not total number of rooms, two. With one bathroom. Presuming you’re now about to suggest I find a flatmate…No.”

“Even with a favor from your landlady, it must be expensive. Or has the Met began to pay you?”

“Of course not, even if they wanted to I wouldn’t take the money. What use is being official? I’m far more valuable on my own. I’ll manage I’m sure. Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

“It’s just a thought.” The food arrived and a comfortable silence took over their small table.

The rest of the meal passed by in the type of silence that occurred when two people knew one another but didn’t feel socially obligated to speak to one another, it was Sherlock’s favorite kind.

At nine o’clock exactly the moving van pulled up to the kerb directly outside 221 and the four ‘movers’ piled out and began unloading. Leaving Anthea to pay the bill Sherlock wandered outside to direct the men as well as ensure Mrs. Hudson knew his things had arrived.

Anthea left a twenty pound note on the table and stepped outside, seeing Sherlock speaking with an older woman in a plum dress who must be the infamous Mrs Hudson.

“Pardon me,” she smiled at Mrs Hudson, “Where should the movers take things?”

“Oh hello dearie,” chirped the landlady, “Sherlock dear I didn’t know you had a young lady…”

“I’m just a friend ma’am. Sherlock needed a bit of help. Where should we take his things?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson tutted a bit, “Just right up these stairs will do. I’d offer to help but I’ve got a bad hip.”

“No need to worry yourself Mrs. Hudson we’ve got it well under hand,” Sherlock replied and with a galant swoop he leaned down and kissed her cheek quickly before waving to the movers, “You just enjoy the view.” With a final wink, which could have been directed towards Anthea or Mrs. Hudson, the consulting detective bounded up the stairs and took control of his lodgings.”

The PA indicated with a tilt of her head that the movers should follow them, carrying clearly labeled boxes up the seventeen steps to the B flat. It certainly had potential, but the wallpaper appeared to be eighty years old and the rugs had seen their fair share of visitors. Still, it was marginally better that his old flat and for some reason Mrs Hudson adored him.

She started with the bathroom, unpacking the smallest room first and made a note to have a shower curtain delivered since she’d thrown the old one away. When she was done there the PA moved into the bedroom, finding all the boxes and furniture there and arranged it as similarly to his old room as possible.

While Anthea busied herself with the bathroom Sherlock watched the movers unload the rest of his belongings and waved them off before they could unpack any of it, taking it upon himself to rearrange the furniture he’d brought with the few pieces already in the flat. As he finished and began lining the shelves on either side of the fireplace with books Mrs. Hudson came up with a pot of freshly brewed tea and three cups, “Coo-ee,” she called, “I brought you a bit of refreshment. Where did that pretty young friend of yours go Sherlock?”

“Just in the bedroom Mrs Hudson. Unless you meant that particularly good looking mover? The tall one with bright blue eyes?” She put on a smile for the woman, it would be easier to get back into Baker Street on Mycroft’s request if she liked her.

Mrs. Hudson tittered a bit, “I did mean you but since you mention it, I don’t suppose there’s any reason for him to come back?” Widowhood certainly suited the landlady who laughed lightly at her own quip before pouring tea, automatically making her’s and Sherlock’s before enquiring as to how Anthea took hers.

As the three sat around the kitchen table Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to keep conversation flowing, “Sherlock dear,” she patted his hand, “do you remember the bedroom upstairs, the one that goes with this flat? I’m not sure what to do with it, keeping it does raise your rent but I don’t think I can rent it out on its own. I know you didn’t want to find a flatmate but perhaps splitting the rent…” she trailed off meaningfully, aware of the highs and lows in the income of the world’s only consulting detective.

Anthea sipped the tea even though she prefered coffee, “Oh, I think a flatmate would be good for Sherlock. No one really likes to live alone, besides with the internet it’s so easy to find someone compatible to live with.”

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise as the two women teamed up against him. “I suppose,” he conceded, “I could ask around at the hospital.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded approvingly, “I’d never tell you what to do with your life dear,” said she, “but I think a flatmate is just the thing you need. We can’t have you talking to that,” she nodded to the skull Sherlock had placed on the mantle, “like one would to a friend.” Focusing in on the skull closer she gasped a bit, “Sherlock Holmes is that a real human head?”

“Of course not Mrs. Hudson,” came the response as he ushered her out, “the flesh was removed years ago, Billy’s just a skull now. Thank you for the tea, Anthea and I have to finish unpacking now.”

“Yes, someone is a bit of a fashionista. His clothes need to be unpacked and socks organized.” Anthea set the cup on the tray and went back to the bedroom, not before tucking a pair of headphones on the bison skull.

“A fashionista?” he asked incredulously to her retreating back. No longer addressing Anthea or Mrs. Hudson, who shook her head fondly and disappeared back downstairs with the tea tray, he groused, “Simply because I put a small amount of effort into my appearance doesn’t mean you need to be so dismissive of my wardrobe,” and returned to work.

The PA rolled her eyes, walking through the kitchen and began with the trash bag containing Sherlock’s socks and black pants. She’d never seen another man with thirty pairs of the same pants. When she went to hang up his dress clothing she did try to make it look as similar to his old closet as possible. For all the complaining she’d done, she did want him to have a nice flat and this was far superior to the one on Montague street.

In the living room Sherlock glanced round at the boxes, resigned to several more hours of unpacking when Anthea’s bag caught his eye. His brother’s assistant had always remained an enigma and Sherlock had never had the wherewithal to resist a mystery, even when he knew leaving things as they stood was the safer option. Especially then.

Taking one short glance to see if Anthea had lingered in the hall he dumped the contents of her bag onto the table. A new cell phone, designer wallet, several butterscotch candies, makeup bag, two sets of keys, ipod, Mount Blanc, and a little notebook similar to his own spilled out over the desk.

Scoffing at the candy (obviously for Mycroft, the prat), setting aside the keys (for her work and home), pen, and ipod, he took a cursory glance into her makeup bag (neutral tones of classic brands) before returning it to her purse. He settled into the desk chair to flip through the book. Impressed at the mix of code, shorthand, and long form that filled its pages he made a mental note to replace the Moleskin for her as it was nearly full. Returning that back to her bag as well he turned his attention to the two remaining items- her wallet and phone.

The wallet held nothing more or less than he’d expected, fake identification, credit cards (shiney enough to make John’s eyes go wide at the thought of their limit), and insurance card all in the name of Anthea Jones as well as the trappings of the day to day life of a working woman- business cards, Oyster card, frequent customer cafe punch cards. None of it told the detective what he’d realized he was looking for halfway through the search, the real name of Anthea Jones.

That left her phone, a simple Blackberry (outdated technology she really should insist on something better from Mycroft) with a simple four digit password. Knowing her intelligence Sherlock immediately discounted attempting to discern any important dates- Anthea always kept the phone on her which meant she understood the value of security and the only truly secure password was a random one. Looking closely at the number keys he could see that 2, 4, 6, and 7 showed far more wear than the rest. After making that deduction it took less than a minute to run through combinations to find the correct code (6427).

Once inside he quickly scrolled through the messages and recent calls looking for anyone that stood out. In the ‘E’s’ he found his mark- one contact without a last name or title, simply, ‘Edward.’ Without even glancing back to check on Anthea’s progress he pressed the green call button and waited through the ring tone.

The call rang through to an old Nokia flip phone belonging to Anthea’s brother Edward. He was working on a farm in the Midlands, part of some commune.

“‘Oi, *******. Mister Posh finally dumped you?” His voice lacked all the refinement that Anthea’s had and a bit of anger and bit behind it. Disappointment and anger behind his words.

“I’m glad to see others see my brother for what he is,” Sherlock responded easily, a hint of a grin in his voice.

“You’re not ******.”

“Obviously.”

Somewhere in a field Edward rolled his eyes, “I shouldn’t be surprised, she doesn't call.”

“Fascinating, I’m sure. Why not?”

“Why don’t you ask your brother?”

“Something tells me our feelings towards Mycroft aren’t different. I try not to speak to him-”

Anthea came in, cutting Sherlock off, “Alright, your bedroom is done, I suppose the kitchen….That’s my mobile.”

“Ah- *********, thank you. You’ve been such a help today,” Sherlock replied hanging up the phone without saying goodbye.

She took two quick steps across the room, slapping him hard across the face. “Bastard.” There was anger in her eyes, Anthea felt betrayed. Three years with Sherlock and she hoped that may have meant something to him. Clearly not. The PA plucked the phone from his grasp, chucking it in her bag and heading for the door.

“It’s no wonder you had to get your brother’s PA to help you move. Most people get friends. Don’t call me again.” Slamming the door to Sherlock’s flat Anthea stalked down the stairs and out to a waiting black car.

Well then. That was… unexpected. Definitely unexpected. Perhaps he should send apology flowers? Was that what people did? He’d have to Google it.


End file.
